


i'm sick, you're tired; let's dance

by faehunting



Series: who put these bodies between us? [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Domestic, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-War, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-30 18:56:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19409356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faehunting/pseuds/faehunting
Summary: Another kiss, and another. It stays slow, stays dreamy, stabilized by the honeyed sunlight they’re caught in. Bucky pulls away from the kiss to press his forehead against Steve’s. He touches his thumb to the corner of Steve’s kissed-pink mouth.“Stevie,” he says, quiet. “Dance with me.”





	i'm sick, you're tired; let's dance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [arcusroll](https://archiveofourown.org/users/arcusroll/gifts).



> for arcusroll, who read this first, and waited patiently for six years until i cared enough about marvel movies to get into steve/bucky. six years of convincing me to watch ca:tws, six years of gently pushing good fanfic in my direction, six years of patience that has brought us here. the year 2019. writing stucky fanfic. here you go, you terrible, beautiful bitch. 
> 
> the song they dance to is glenn miller & his orchestra’s [“moonlight serenade.”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8TB_8H23EDI)
> 
> this fic is the first in a series based on body issues and guilt, as inspired by metric’s [“calculation theme.”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3rSao4unXqc) this series will not have a continuous narrative, because i have a lot of thoughts, and some of them are incongruous. any additions to this particular fic will be added as chapters.
> 
> unbeta'd, apologies in advance for lingering typos.

Bucky jerks awake to the sound of Steve coughing. It’s a daily standard, lungs weak from recurrent pneumonia, from a lifetime of asthma. It sounds like a dry cough today - nothing to worry about. It might be exacerbated by allergens from the slow turn to spring, or maybe the haze of pollution. Unavoidable, constant irritants.

Bucky relaxes against the mattress, listening for changes in Steve’s breathing. He knows the standard rasp of it, he can predict the wheezing and the whistling long before it starts. He will leap out of bed if he has to. He always knows where Steve’s asthma cigarettes are. He knows the exact cadence that Steve’s breathing takes when he needs the adrenalin vaporizer. Bucky can prep it fast as anything. He hasn’t fumbled the delicate glass pieces in years, fingers careful with the dropper, the half empty bottle. Heart pounding in his throat. Steve leant against him, wheezing a damp spot into Bucky’s shirt. A litany of “ _not today, not today,_ ” echoing between his ears. 

It’s nothing but a cough. Bucky is awake, he is alert, but his heart rate is slowing down. He can lie in. He can listen to the sounds of the city waking up around him, knowing that Steve is upright and breathing.

Bucky stretches out between the sheets. He tips his face towards the sunshine coming in through the window, filling the spaces between the curtains. He presses his feet against the mattress, curls his toes, finds his feet sore from last night. The muscles of his thighs and calves are tight from dancing. He stretches his arms above his head and hums at the tender ache in his back, his shoulders. Lifting dames on the dance floor has been easier since he’s started working twelves on the docks, but the added muscle doesn’t account for his flamboyance. He gets caught up in the moment, wants to swing his girl around, wants to make a spectacle of them.

He starts when something hits his chest. He opens his eyes eyes and finds Steve across the apartment, framed by the doorway. His eyes are watering from his coughing fit, brow furrowed in a scowl. Bucky picks up the pulp Steve’s thrown at him. He straightens the pages out before flipping through them and cocking an eyebrow. 

“Little light reading this morning, Stevie?” he asks, voice rough with sleep. The edge of a hangover presses in on his temples, makes him squint. Steve huffs, rolls his eyes, tries to hide his smile. He mutters something about waking up, about laziness, before falling victim to his dry cough again. He turns towards the kitchen sink. Bucky watches the way his thin shoulders heave, ribs visible through his undershirt. 

Bucky drops the pulp on the floor beside the bed and hauls himself up, wincing at the pull of his muscles. He rolls his shoulders out and shuffles towards Steve, reaching out to curl a hand around the back of Steve’s neck, the bony jut of his hip. Steve keeps coughing into the bend of his elbow, staring at Bucky’s bare chest. Bucky rubs his thumb back and forth across the short hair on Steve’s neck, soothing and slow. 

“Put some clothes on,” Steve says once he’s caught his breath. He flicks Bucky’s nipple. Bucky swats at Steve’s hand. 

“Nah,” Bucky says, rubbing gentle fingers against Steve’s scalp. 

“Born in a damn barn,” Steve says, leaning back into the sensation. Bucky scratches his balls through his shorts, biting down on a grin. Steve tries to pull a face, but he laughs through it. Steve’s eyes are so blue up close, corners creased from the force of his smile. His pale eyelashes are damp and clumped together, a shade darker from the moisture. Bucky swallows, feels his ears go hot. He leans in and touches his nose to Steve’s, squeezing the back of his neck, angling for a kiss. He watches Steve’s eyes, tracks the way they go liquid in the morning light.

“Jeez, Buck,” Steve says, voice loud in the warm air between them. He wrinkles his nose and shoves at Bucky’s chest, elbows locking when his arms extend. It’s surprises Bucky, and he blinks hard against the sudden movement. He makes a weird noise that hurts coming up. He’s still waking, slogging through the fog of his hangover, a little unsteady on his feet. Steve is leaning back, pushing against Bucky’s hands.

“You smell a damned mess. You got morning mouth and you still smell like the dancehall.” Steve’s nose is wrinkled up, brow furrowed deep. Bucky tips his head back and laughs, eyes crinkling closed. He knows that he smells like old sweat and alcohol, that his hair is still carrying the ghost of cigar smoke. His mouth tastes like he’s been breathing through it all night. It doesn’t matter to him - he wants a kiss anyways. He tightens his grip for the ensuing assault. 

“Aw, sugar,” Bucky says, wheedling, trying again to duck in for a kiss. Steve’s expression breaks. He laughs, and laughs, and keeps laughing. He presses his hands to Bucky’s face, his chest, holding him off. “C’mon, gimme a kiss, doll. Just a quick one, c’mon, don’t put me out like this.” 

Steve drops his chin to his chest when Bucky almost manages to plant one on him, using his sharp elbows for leverage, trying to wiggle out of Bucky’s arms. He’s laughing and short on breath, but his chest hasn’t gone tight yet. 

“No!” Steve says through his laughter, “you reek, let go of me.” He turns his shoulder into Bucky’s chest. A bigger man might have successfully shook Bucky off, making a bulwark of their body like that. Steve isn’t a bigger man. Bucky’s arms go around him, holding him still against the meat of his chest. He kisses Steve’s hair until Steve’s head knocks into Bucky’s face, hitting him hard. Bucky grunts from the impact, blinking away sparkles in his vision. His nose throbs, but there’s no blood. 

“Jesus Christ, Rogers,” Bucky says, doubling down and trying to get Steve into a headlock. He’s squirming too much, panting through his giggles, blunt fingernails digging into Bucky’s forearms. 

In the spaces between laughter and laboured breathing, music starts playing. It’s the resonant sound of a record player, lacking the static of radio. Someone a couple doors over has put a record on, the sound floating in through the open window. 

Steve and Bucky grapple in the morning sunlight, giggling and trading quiet insults. Bucky finally gets Steve into a lazy headlock. He holds Steve’s head against his hip long enough to drink some water out of the tap, to scrub the taste of sleep and old whiskey off his tongue. Steve curses a blue streak, struggling harder and punching at Bucky’s thighs. Steve breaks out of his hold while Bucky’s still bent over the sink. He steps out of Bucky’s reach. Bucky wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He stares, his grin softening. 

Steve is backlit by the sun. It lights his messy hair like a crown, filaments of gold framing his face. He’s grinning, his cheeks pink from exertion, eyes bright, fists up by his chin. He’s breathing hard. Bucky doesn’t move towards him, doesn’t try to initiate another round of roughhousing. He just looks at Steve, warm and alive and lit up like a god. Bucky’s sun soaked, untroubled Apollo in their shitty tenement flat. 

Somewhere nearby, a new song starts up. Something slow, enchanting, clarinet leading the melody. Steve’s expression changes, hands falling to his sides. He steps towards Bucky, opens the lines of his body for him. The smile on his face is sweet and young, something that only Bucky gets to see, hidden away until they can be alone together. 

Bucky cups Steve’s jaw in his hands, running his thumbs over the apples of his cheeks, where his blush is darkest. Steve sets his hand on Bucky’s chest, his thumb fitting into the groove where his collarbones meet. Steve is still breathing fast, trying to catch his breath. Bucky can feel it on his mouth, can taste it when he finally presses in for his morning kiss. 

One kiss, and then another. They pull away long enough to make eye contact, to smile, to pull each other in again. They kiss sweet, gentle, until Steve’s breathing is shaky from something other than an early morning coughing fit, or an impromptu wrestle in the kitchen. Bucky tilts his head into it, curling his fingers into Steve’s hair. 

Steve strokes his hands down Bucky’s body, holds his waist with skinny fingers. He tries to lick into Bucky’s mouth. Bucky hums, pulls back to touch his nose to Steve’s. His eyes are heavy lidded. He watches Steve’s lips part, watches him swallow hard. Bucky’s mouth curls into a little smirk. 

Another kiss, and another. It stays slow, stays dreamy, stabilized by the honeyed sunlight they’re caught in. The song comes to an end and starts up again, someone unseen placing the needle back on the record. Bucky pulls away from the kiss to press his forehead against Steve’s. He touches his thumb to the corner of Steve’s kissed-pink mouth. 

“Dance with me,” he says into the space between them. Steve laughs a little, quiet, edged with self deprecation. Bucky strokes his right hand down Steve’s neck, cups it around one thin shoulder. 

“Stevie,” he says, quiet. “Dance with me.” 

For all the times they have gone to the dancehall, they have never gone together. They don’t dance together, not even at the drag balls in Harlem. Steve’s breathing gets too short too fast. It frustrates him, makes him shy in that surly way. He always pushes Bucky off on the nearest girl, spends the rest of the night pouting, glaring, doodling on napkins and spare paper he finds in his pockets. At the Brooklyn halls, Steve doesn’t seem to feel the pressure to perform. He couldn’t dance with Bucky there even if he’d wanted to try. 

Instead, he stands around at the back wall. He sometimes talks to people while he watches Bucky dance. Men without partners, women whose feet are sore in their Spanish heels.  
Bucky can always feel him watching. No one can say that James Buchanan doesn’t like to show off, and he’s so much worse when the audience includes his fella. He dances until he’s sweat through his shirt, until his hair is flopped free of his pomade and curled around his face. He tries to catch Steve’s eye across the room and dances until his limbs shake. He dances until Steve is content, when Bucky has hit Steve’s arbitrary quota for how much fun Bucky should be having. 

Steve always slips away first, when Bucky isn’t watching. Bucky walks the girls home, sees them inside and gives them a peck on the cheek. He never lingers, never accepts an invitation inside. And Steve, he never expects Bucky home so early, like he’s always assuming Bucky will take advantage of Steve’s early departure. The look of surprise on Steve’s face when Bucky returns home stings the same, no matter how often he sees it.

They don’t dance together. They can’t dance together, hobbled by polite society and their own rebelling bodies. 

Even so, Bucky pulls Steve along in a slow sway, hidden and safe in their kitchen. When Steve’s brow gets its usual furrow, Bucky kisses it smooth. Bucky watches for any sign of frustration, of embarrassment, and kisses Steve until he’s sweet again. Sweet just for him, in the privacy of their home, in the place they can share each other. 

They move at half the time the music sets. Steve steps are slow and methodical, like he’s worried about stepping on Bucky’s feet. It’s just a sway at first, but then Steve sets his jaw, squares his shoulders. Bucky sighs when Steve starts to lead, lacing their fingers together. He turns Bucky under his arm, pulls him close again. Dust motes are caught in a lackadaisical swirl, warmed by golden sunshine. They follow the gentle eddies of their bodies and dance alongside them. 

They dance in slow circles around the room. Bucky squeezes Steve’s hand in his, brings it to his mouth to kiss where their fingers are clasped. Steve lifts his arm high to spin Bucky again. He spins Bucky into the edge of the table, Bucky laughing and swearing under his breath when his hip bone collides hard with the corner. Steve laughs along with him, pulling Bucky close again and whispering apologies into the skin of his neck. 

Steve presses his face there. Bucky wants to tease him about it, poke fun at how horrified he’d just acted at Bucky’s body odour. He doesn’t. The space they’ve created feels too close for that, comfort strung up and stretched like taffy around them. 

They’re still dancing when the music stops, halfway through the song. Neither of them stop to mention it, caught in each other, moving to something only they can hear. The city is never quiet, after all. There are cars, there are trains, there’s horns and bells and people shouting. 

It’s not a free day. At some point, Bucky will have to shower. He’ll have to get dressed in his overalls and go down to the docks. Steve will gather his paints, ignore the ache in his crooked spine where he has to bend over, lettering another sign. Maybe it will be a good day, and the will both return home to eat together, to wash up and tease one another, to touch each other in the dark. 

But for now, they dance to the ambient sounds of Brooklyn filtering in, a song written just for them.

**Author's Note:**

> come yell at me on [tumblr.](http://faehunting.tumblr.com)


End file.
